Page 47 of Revenge Puck

Juliette tilts her head to study me. “Do you miss her?”

The images of Bailey moaning with her tits in Declan’s mouth drag to the surface.

I shove it back down.

“No.”

The word comes out clipped—too sharp—causing her expression to falter.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, thinking she’s stepped on something fragile.

“Don’t be,” I tell her, managing something that resembles a real smile. “It made me good company for milkshakes.”

A joke.

A shield.

A neat little bow around a mess I don’t know how to explain without sounding bitter or broken or—worse—pathetic.

Juliette doesn’t laugh right away.

She watches me. Then softly, “That bad, huh?”

I shrug, staring into the melted mess of ice cream forming inside the dessert glass. “It wasn’t dramatic,” I lie. “No fighting. Just a bad breakup.”

Her hand moves from her lap to mine, palm pressing into my thigh to console me.

It’s warm.

The contact is innocent in intent, of course it is. There’s empathy written over her face, but my body doesn’t speak that language. It speaks restraint. Quiet determination.

I do not know how to mirror her expression.

My muscles lock. My pulse kicks hard against my ribs.

Our eyes snap together.

“Oh.” She breathes above a whisper. “I’m so s-sorry.”

I can feel the shape of her palm near my groin. The weight of it, lingering too close to the sun. The way it brands me through my jeans…

She hesitates before slowly removing her hand

My throat works but I don’t trust my words. Too dirty. Too revealing.Move your hand closer…

Instead, I lean back and rest my arms on the back of the leather booth, creating distance between my body and the part of me that doesn’t trust itself to move slowly.

But my eyes stay locked on hers.

The air between us is heavy with everything we’re not saying. With the knowledge that we’ve already crossed a line, and probably want to cross it again. The unspoken tension far thicker than blatant groping.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” I tell her quietly. “You were being kind.” I lower my eyes to the smooth expanse above her neckline, allowing myself a brief peek of her tits. “You want something else to drink before the server arrives?”

Juliette follows my gaze like she felt it, then looks down at her melting dessert with concern, as if it’s a wounded animal. “I was thinking about it, but I still have this. And I don’t want to waste it.”

God forbid.

“It’s sweating harder than I am,” I say. “You’ve stirred it at least seventeen times. Besides, I’m paying. Live a little.”